The Hollow Pass seethed like a wound torn open.
Mist and smoke curled together, weaving through broken pines and churned earth as thousands of men bled into the mud. The cries of the dying and the clash of steel were a ceaseless tide, rolling through the narrow gorge. Yet in the heart of that chaos, the world contracted, shrinking until it seemed only two figures existed: Ryon and the scarred northern commander.
The commander was a towering figure, broad-shouldered and armored in plates darkened by war's soot. The scars carved across his face gleamed pale beneath the shadow of his helm—marks not of defeat but of survival, each one a tale of carnage endured. His eyes, sharp and hungry, locked on Ryon with something more than hatred. Recognition.
"You," the commander spat, voice gravel dragged across stone. "The Southern phantom. The warlock-child." He tilted his head, studying Ryon as if measuring prey. "I thought you'd be taller."
